


(Ain't gotta go) Home Alone Tonight

by Project0506



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 11:39:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20656628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506
Summary: It's fuck-this-shit o'clock, Dean's got a roomful of wasted Spark, a leg-full of stitches and a rapidly dwindling supply of patience for bullshittery.(Title from 'Home Alone Tonight' by Luke Bryant)





	(Ain't gotta go) Home Alone Tonight

“Word of advice:” Dean drawls and lines up another inadvisable pair of shots. “If you're angling for a 'yes', maybe bringing up our 'massive age gap' isn't the greatest way to go about it.” Molotov-in-his-Hoodie-Guy blinks kind of dumbly for a second or two before doing a massive, exaggerated double take. If they hadn't spent the past couple hours killing things and getting wasted, Dean would've figured that unholy bastard offspring of a twitch and a stroke was incredibly fake. It's not; Hoodie's just _that_ kind of expressive asshole. It's simultaneously hilarious and annoying.

“Is a 'yes' even on the table?” he wonders. He mutters 'Prost!', downs his shot and unsubtly eyes Dean's, the calculation flashing quicksilver across his face just like every single other emotion he's felt in the past six hours. Then again, Dean figures he probably doesn't need a poker face. He can cheerfully lose every dime, plus his belt and shoes, to you at the table, then just as cheerfully track you home and take every cent of it back while firebombing your house.

Fucking sparks. Worse than witches in every way. At least you knew what you were in for with a witch. Sparks are naturally weaker, and thus far more viciously creative with their mojo.

“Probably not,” Dean admits. Molotovs. In his bright red 'USC Trojans' hoodie front pouch. _Molotovs_ stored like an inch and a half from his dick. Dean does not want to know what the fuck else he'd be okay with keeping in his jeans, thanks. Plus, you know, _not gay_. That's a biggie.

Hoodie-guy's face falls, a bit like someone yanked a puppy's tail if the puppy was a chihuahua with a buzz cut. Dean only barely snatches his shot to safety, falling neatly for the feint and instead losing the bottle of vodka. Hoodie swigs straight from the bottle and pouts.

“Figures.” He sighs. “With your hrng,” he flaps a hand at Dean's face, “and all the oh-em-ef-gee and shit. It allllll. Figures. I'm going to squeeze your bicep.”

...What? “Have we already moved to the not-making-sense part of the night?” Hoodie shoots him an unsteady glare and straight-up hoists himself up onto the shitty motel table, wriggling across like it's perfectly natural.

“Bullshit you definitely have people doing this all the time, don't front.”

“I really, really don't...”

Hoodie reaches out and, yep, makes like a blood pressure cuff around Dean's right bicep. Guy's got a knack, Dean muses, for taking the most mundane of normal human interactions and making them _really fucking awkward._

“Squish,” Hoodie hisses under his breath, apparently completely oblivious to the fact that Dean momentarily contemplated breaking his wrists. “Squish. Squish. Squishhhhhh.” Hoodie stares uncomprehendingly at his hands for a few long seconds, and at the muscles Dean's tensed under them to prevent another 'squish'. “Not squish. Unsquish, even.” Huge brown eyes glisten up at Dean, and Hoodie's pout gains a lip-tremor. “You are so not _fair._” There's a sticky smack of a hand against Dean's cheek and the heel of another is pressed in that space between his top lip and his nose. “Stop it with your fucking unavailable unfair _face_.”

Now okay, Dean's aware of what he looks like, thank you very much. He still can't help but preen a little bit, obvious enough even with Hoodie's hand pretty much squashing his nose flat. It nets him a rude, watery noise and a huff as hoodie retreats. “Hate you,” he mutters into the vodka he miraculously still has. “Hate all of you and your prettys, you should be taxed. Do _not_,” he snaps, gesturing violently with the bottle, “make me into... into a maudlin drunk. There will be no sharing about pretty unavailable people with core muscles I want to lick, capeachy?”

His only regret, Dean decides, as he wrestles the last of the bottle away, was that he didn't do this three drinks ago. In his defense, everything he knew about college said that it was pretty much a non-stop kegger for the first year so it wasn't unreasonable to assume that Hoodie's tolerance would be higher.

It takes a good half an hour to get a bottle of water into the asshole, then get him out of his shirt when he -ugh- _dribbles_.

(Is Dean his mom? Dean doesn't think so. So then what the fuck is this?)

Hoodie (whose actual name is a Polish gargle according to his driver's license, go figure) gets his ass planted on the couch. It's 3 am and while Dean has no problem with kicking him out to get some sleep, he did not just save this suburb from omega werewolves just to inflict a plastered pyro spark on them at fuck-this-noise am. He's a little bit more responsible than that. Just a little. So: Hoodie on the couch, Dean on the bed closer to the door. Lights out, and all that's left is the well-deserved sleep of the exhausted.

Hoodie's ass chooses right about then to start playing 'Hungry like the Wolf'.

“Dude!” Dean snarls and rolls straight to his feet. Hoodie yelps and fumbles gracelessly, but Dean still gets to the guy's phone before he could himself. “Who the fuck is 'Fluffy' and is it absolutely necessary for him to be texting you right now?” Dean's voice makes it quite clear what he expects the answer to be.

“Oh my gourd make him fuck off,” Hoodie whines, and ding ding right answer.

Dean doesn't have much experience with selfies and he's more than a little drunk, but he flings an arm around Hoodie's neck and gives it a shot anyway. The image is off-center, slightly blurred and absolutely perfect. The flash had caught them both a little off guard (they have those on the front on phones now? Neat.) Hoodie's mouth brushing a slight 'oh' and Dean's smirk just barely turned towards him. He sends it before he can talk some sense to himself, and follows it up with a 'Busy. Fuck off.' and turns the phone off.

It'll come back to bite him in the morning, no doubt, even if Hoodie's reaction to it is to groan “You are a beautiful man, holy shit.” But right now there's finally enough alcohol in his bloodstream that he can ignore the line of stitches up the back of his calf and pass out. Fuck later, he'll figure it out when it comes.


End file.
